The Council chambers were silent. Too silent.
Smoke from the night's hollow attack still clung to the city outside, seeping faintly through the arched windows. But inside, the silence pressed heavier than the air. Twelve seats circled the great table. Eleven were filled.
Valerius stood at the head, his silver staff planted firmly against the marble floor. His pale eyes swept the chamber. "The hunters failed to return with their prey."
A ripple of unease passed among the councillors. One, a heavyset man with a braided beard, slammed his palm against the table. "You swore they were contained! If word spreads that a corrupted timer-bearer walks free in the Outer District—"
"Contain yourself, Marcellan," Valerius cut in, his voice cold. "Do you think the citizens care about truths whispered in alleys? They care only for safety. And safety is what we maintain."
An older woman at the far end, her eyes sharp beneath a veil of lace, leaned forward. "Maintain? The wards are faltering. The hollows breached deeper last night than they have in decades. And now this boy—this Aelric—slips our grasp. You call that maintaining order?"
The chamber buzzed with quiet dissent.
Valerius's jaw tightened. For a moment, he looked older, the weight of centuries pressing down on his shoulders. Then he spoke again, each word deliberate.
"Order is not a matter of truth. It is a matter of control. The boy threatens that balance. He must be brought back—alive, if possible. Dead, if not."
---
Beyond the chamber doors, the hunters knelt in shadow. Their mission's failure was carved into their silence. One clutched a bandaged wound across his ribs. The other's blades were notched from hollow blood.
Valerius approached them alone, his robes whispering against the stone floor. His gaze was sharp enough to cut.
"You lost him."
The wounded hunter bowed his head. "The hollows interfered. By the time we regrouped, their trail was gone."
Valerius studied them both, then leaned closer. His voice dropped to a whisper that slithered into the cracks of their minds.
"Find him again. Do not return until his body cools at your feet. Do you understand?"
The hunters nodded, shadows swallowing their faces. Then they vanished into the dark halls, silent as ghosts.
---
Far from the Council's grip, Aelric and Elara pushed deeper into the Outer District.
The streets thinned the farther they went. Buildings stood like broken teeth, their windows shattered, their walls crumbling. Smoke rose in the distance where pyres burned, the Council's efficient way of disposing of hollow-corrupted corpses.
Elara pulled her cloak tighter, her eyes scanning the ruins. "It feels like the city ends here."
"In a way, it does," Aelric muttered. His corrupted arm pulsed faintly beneath his sleeve, glowing veins creeping further with each passing hour. He clenched his fist. "Beyond this, there's only the wasteland. The old ruins."
She shot him a sharp look. "And you're sure that's where we need to go?"
"No." He forced a grin, though it faltered at the edges. "But it's the only place left that the Council won't follow willingly. Which means answers, or death. Maybe both."
Her expression softened slightly. "Then I'll take both. As long as I'm with you."
For a moment, the tension between them was heavier than the ruined air. But neither spoke of it again.
---
By nightfall, they reached the city's edge.
The great wall loomed above them, its surface cracked and weathered. Once, it had been the city's pride, a shield against the horrors beyond. Now, it was scarred from centuries of hollow assaults. Sections leaned precariously, others had collapsed entirely.
Aelric stared at the breach before them—a jagged tear in the wall where stone had given way to time. Beyond it stretched a barren plain, littered with fragments of ancient structures. The wasteland.
Elara's voice was barely above a whisper. "So this is it."
"This is it," Aelric echoed.
They stepped through the breach.
---
The wasteland was eerily quiet. Wind hissed across the plain, stirring dust and ash. Strange pillars jutted from the ground, their surfaces carved with symbols long eroded by time. Some glowed faintly in the moonlight, as if remembering a power that once pulsed within them.
Aelric felt the shard grow warmer in his pocket. Its pulse matched his heartbeat, faster now, insistent.
He pulled it free. Its glow spilled across the cracked earth, illuminating faint lines etched into the ground. Lines that connected the broken pillars in a vast, intricate pattern—like the face of a forgotten clock.
Elara stared. "What… is this place?"
Aelric's voice was low. "The heart of it. Where the timers began."
---
The shard pulsed again, brighter this time.
The air thickened. Whispers swirled around them, rising like a tide. The ground trembled beneath their feet. Then, from the broken pillars, shadows began to stir.
Figures took shape, not hollows, but remnants—echoes of those erased. Their forms wavered like smoke, their voices layered atop one another.
You carry us. You bear the chain. You hold the final hour.
Aelric staggered, clutching his head. The corruption in his veins flared, black tendrils writhing beneath his skin. The shard burned in his hand, fusing pain with clarity.
Elara grabbed his arm, her voice sharp. "Fight it! Stay with me!"
The echoes swirled closer, their whispers drilling into his skull.
Break the cycle. Or be consumed as we were.
Aelric roared, slamming the shard into the ground. Light exploded outward, tearing through the wasteland like a shockwave. The whispers faltered, the echoes shrieking before dissolving into dust.
When the light faded, silence returned.
Aelric collapsed to his knees, panting. His corrupted arm smoked faintly, the veins retreating just enough to give him a moment's reprieve.
Elara knelt beside him, gripping his shoulders. "You almost lost yourself again."
He looked up at her, his eyes burning with something fierce. "Not this time. Not yet."
She squeezed his arm. "Then let's make sure it's never."
---
Unseen by either of them, in the distance, cloaked figures watched from the shadows of a broken archway. The hunters.
One whispered, "He touched the shard. The ruins respond to him."
The other's eyes narrowed. "Then we strike when it binds him fully. The Council was right—he's no boy. He's a weapon."
They melted back into the darkness, following silently.
---
Back within the Council hall, Valerius stood alone in the great chamber, his staff resting against the table. The bells had long since gone silent, but his thoughts rang louder than any chime.
His reflection stared back at him in the polished marble floor—pale, weary, burdened.
He whispered to himself, though the words seemed meant for someone else entirely.
"Forgive me, Seraphiel. I could not save you. Perhaps I cannot save him either. But I will not let the city fall."
The silence of the chamber answered him, vast and unbroken.
And in that silence, Valerius tightened his grip on his staff.